You think you know a guy. You follow his work, you admire him—you figure you can predict his every move. Then, one day, you catch a glimpse of what he used to be like. He was a cocky s.o.b., back in the day. He stole. He beat people up. And he dressed in womens’ clothes.
Well, I thought I knew Charles Chaplin, brother. I recognized that stutter-stepping little sneak; the one with a heart of gold, but not much spleen, and no sway with the ladies. But like another famous Charlie—Charlie Brown—this little icon wasn’t always so tame. Travel back, before the maudlin grace of Modern Times (1936) or The Circus (1928), beyond even the measured pace and ample budget of Payday (1922), and you’ll find a Tramp still unfurling himself from the Keystone cloak of violence, sex (and yes) unqualified laughs. In some ways, I like the Chaplin of 1915 best of all.
